


poesies

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Books, Cassandra Has A Realization About Love, Epiphanies, F/F, First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance, Slight Canon Divergence, Unreliable Narrator, Vignettes, compulsory heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Soon, she remembers the book the Inquisitor had been reading.And when she goes back—even later, when there’s no chance of Dorian or the Inquisitor seeing her—she can’t remember the cover enough to narrow down the possibilities or where even in the library it might be kept. She tells herself it isn’t important, but that willful ignorance, small though it is, crumbles under its own weight.She knows what important things feel like.And this, somehow, is one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Settiai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Settiai/gifts).



I.

Cassandra rarely makes her way up to the library, her time better spent down in the yards training with Cullen or studying Lord Seeker’s Book of Secrets or planning their next move over the map pinned to the Inquisitor’s war table at each corner by a heavy chest or a candle or a knife stabbed into the wood that one time it wouldn’t stay put, still remaining despite the damage it’s doing to the map and the table both. Which is why, when she climbs the steps leading up to said library, slipping past Solas as quietly as she knows how—which is to say, not very, as she’s always stamped and tromped about with a purpose—she’s more than a little surprised to see just how many _people_ there are here.

And who in particular.

Cassandra almost misses the Inquisitor entirely, tucked as she is into a plush, red velvet chair that’s been pushed far into a recess, protected on two sides by a wall and a shelf. A large window crowds her over her shoulder, offering some light, most of which bounces off of the dust motes floating in the air. In fact, Cassandra might well have stormed right on past, too focused on her own destination, if she hadn’t spoken, that is.

“Cassandra!” she says, her voice cultured, hardly raised above the low din of chatter elsewhere in the room. Doors opening and closing, the rustling of Leliana’s birds high above, cutting laughter, all threaten to swallow the sound of the Inquisitor’s voice. But Cassandra’s grown used to that voice, knows that voice as well as she knows her own, cultivated in the way all nobles’ are, the tone refined and dignified. Pleasant. _Always_ pleasant.

Startled, she stops, turning on her heels, military precise, and bows her head in sharp greeting. “Inquisitor,” she says, grateful that she doesn’t sound breathless, too. She has embarrassed herself quite enough in front of the woman in question already.

Uncrossing her legs, the Inquisitor leans forward and smiles, her hand falling to her lap to close the book settled on her thighs. Cassandra can’t see the cover and moves just a shade closer in the hopes of seeing what it might be. The only thing she can tell is it’s colorful, one corner a riot of burnished shades of orange.

“I didn’t know you read,” she says, brazen—unconsciously, unconscionably so. Her heart pounds and a sick shame settles in her gut at the thoughtlessness of her comment. She lowers her gaze to the floor, her mind immediately constructing an inadequate apology and a scathing retort—the former for the Inquisitor, the latter for herself. Neither response, however, makes it out of her mouth by the time she thinks to speak again. “That is to say…”

But instead of taking offense, the Inquisitor laughs and waves Cassandra’s careless words away. “I haven’t proven myself a great reader of late. That is quite true,” she says, soothing and kind and amused. Anyone else would be piqued—and rightly so. Eyebrow quirking upward, she adds, “I would consider it a shame, but catching you off-guard may have made it worth it.”

“I…” Her cheeks flame, redness spreading hot across her cheeks, creeping slow over the bridge of her nose, across her forehead. And she _knows_ the Inquisitor can see it. Cassandra would have to be standing in the dark for her to miss it. Or the Inquisitor would have to be the least observant person in Thedas, which is impossible. Mages are never unobservant. They must always be on the lookout. And the Inquisitor more than most.

The Inquisitor’s lips quirk. And the skin around her eyes crinkles, the light—or something else—catching in them. Were Cassandra inclined toward fancy, she’d call the effect dazzling. As it is, she dismisses it entirely, focusing instead on maintaining what decorum she can muster. “My apologies, Inquisitor,” she says, jaw taking on a stubborn set, the words low and displeased as they exit her mouth. Yet another inadequacy the Inquisitor will have to forgive her. Manners have never been her strong suit.

“You can call me Evelyn if you’d like,” she says, forcing the conversation in a direction Cassandra hadn’t anticipated, apparently willing to ignore Cassandra’s desire to move on from the whole thing entirely despite the rather obvious attempt Cassandra had made to dismiss herself. But if Cassandra’s flaw is her manners, the Inquisitor’s is conveniently ignoring unspoken social conventions when she wishes to. “Or Trevelyan even, if that’s any more comfortable for you.”

This isn’t the first time the Inquisitor has made such an offer, and frankly, Cassandra finds neither option appealing, which is why she hasn’t ceded the point already. The Inquisitor is the Inquisitor. She has more than earned the respect that title brings to bear. There needn’t be any special familiarity between them. But something about the _way_ the Inquisitor suggests it now, almost tentative if Cassandra didn’t know any better, soft and offhand, gives her pause. And she almost gives in, the Inquisitor’s name a heavy, awkward weight on her tongue that can’t quite make its way past her teeth.

That’s the only thing that saves her from making a fool of herself entirely.

Because suddenly a hand is clamping down on her shoulder and the scent of mint is brushing past her cheek on the warm exhale of—“Well, what have we here?”—Dorian’s breath, of course. And she’d rather be damned than suggest to him that she has the Inquisitor’s favor. Or to anyone, really. But especially him, who, when he calls the Inquisitor by her title, manages to elicit a smile from her, and a spark of amusement, and has somehow earned the Inquisitor’s friendship without the necessity of—of, well.

It’s unimportant.

“Cassandra, I must say it’s _quite_ the honor to find you in my—”

“Leave it, Dorian,” Cassandra says, whip sharp, more forceful than she’d intended. Forceful enough that even the Inquisitor looks baffled for a moment, her face shifting from pleased to dismayed to troubled briefly before the decision to remain neutral settles, a look Cassandra has seen so many times in their travels together. It never crosses her features except when she wishes to keep her judgment to herself.

“Very well,” Dorian replies, indifferent in an obvious, telling way, his head tilting just so in acknowledgment. He knows he would be well within his rights to call her on her rudeness and he wants her to know it, too. In her time with the Inquisition, Cassandra has learned something of about the things that people don’t say. “Might I interest you in…” And here he slips past her, stopping briefly to bend and squeeze the Inquisitor’s forearm in greeting before planting himself in front of a row of books, fingers grazing the spines as he, for a few moments, mouths words to himself. “… I don’t actually know. These are all from Tevinter. You’re not curious about tales of blood mages falling in love and dying tragically, are you?”

“Dorian,” the Inquisitor says, quiet, unable to entirely hide the way the corner of her mouth ticks upward. So much for the Inquisitor’s neutrality.

“No?” Dorian purses his lips, lifts his fingers in a lightning quick motion to smooth his mustache. “Perhaps that’s just the Inquisitor’s tastes then, hmm?”

“ _Dorian_ ,” the Inquisitor says again. Her cheeks are a little pink—from holding back a laugh, Cassandra suspects. “I don’t believe Cassandra finds you anywhere near as amusing as the rest of us do.”

“No.” Dorian’s response is thoughtful and light with the kind of wit no one back home would thank him for. “I think she finds me exactly as amusing as the rest of you do. Well, most of you. It’s not her fault you and the Iron Bull have a much finer appreciation for—”

“I think I will be going now,” Cassandra says, a headache developing behind her right eye. Dorian talks so much and says so little. How the Inquisitor can stand to be around him so much is beyond her, but she also can’t deny that there is something between them that marks the one as especially important to the other. She fights the urge to sneer, just a little bit, and reminds herself that it’s good the Inquisitor has someone she can relax with. And Dorian is a good man even when he wants to pretend otherwise. Cassandra has no right to think ill of the connection.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Dorian says, smiling, nearly genuine. “Of course.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve stayed too long as it is.”

Soon, she remembers the book the Inquisitor had been reading.

And when she goes back—even later, when there’s no chance of Dorian or the Inquisitor seeing her—she can’t remember the cover enough to narrow down the possibilities or where even in the library it might be kept. She tells herself it isn’t important, but that willful ignorance, small though it is, crumbles under its own weight.

She knows what important things feel like.

And this, somehow, is one.

II.

Cassandra hears the Inquisitor before she sees her, the sound of her laughter carrying across the wide expanse of Skyhold’s main hall. Coming out of the war room, head bent toward a parchment Leliana has saddled her with, it’s no wonder that Cassandra can hear her so clearly. Her gaze immediately lifts, sharp and quick, settling on the back of the Inquisitor’s head where she—

Has apparently found a table. For Varric. And herself to sit at, the small wooden thing an awkward addition to the corner Varric has proclaimed as his own for no reason Cassandra can imagine except to eavesdrop on anyone and everyone who comes in. She’d have thought he’d prefer the tavern for that. He’d spent so much of his time in that wretched one in Kirkwall after all. But no. Here he is. Alongside the Inquisitor. The urge to turn back and return to the war room is strong.

“No, no. The Knight Captain should—”

The Inquisitor’s back is to Cassandra, so when she leans forward, still laughing, and makes a loud, yet ineffective, shushing sound, it’s not because Cassandra has spied them. Which is good as far as Cassandra’s concerned. She’s never much enjoyed interrupting people, knows well her reputation for souring the joviality of others. She would not take a well-earned moment of humor from the Inquisitor if she could help it. She would not have the Inquisitor restrain herself simply because Cassandra is there.

Lowering her eyes, she frowns at Leliana’s report, the parchment thick in her hand and brittle from the chill. Her gait quickens as she heads toward the door.

She almost makes it when _Varric_ ruins her escape. “Seeker!”

The Inquisitor’s torso twists and her leg hikes up to settle on the bench; she holds the edge of the table and turns, peering at Cassandra. Unable to stop the Inquisitor’s scrutiny of her, she wishes desperately that she’d left Varric to his fate in Kirkwall. She wishes she’d never sought him out to begin with.

He’d have survived. Probably.

If she’d known the person she was looking for all along was the Inquisitor and _not_ Hawke, she needn’t be in this predicament at all. But there was no anticipating the Inquisitor. Not at all.

“We were just talking about you,” he says, a lie, no doubt, and not even a kind one. She can guess what they were talking about it and she wants no part of it until it’s held in her hands in a bound book. Regardless, Varric senses none of Cassandra’s pique, waving her over like they’re friends. Like she wouldn’t skewer him where he sits with her sword rather than her eyes if it wouldn’t result in his death and a mess and the Inquisitor’s disapproval. Like that quick, imaginative brain of his couldn’t guess she’d wanted to avoid talking to them all together from her skulking actions of a moment ago. But they are compatriots, she and he, strange partners in this mess with Corypheus, so she doesn’t do anything more scathing than stare at him. And then the Inquisitor joins him in beckoning her over, a raised hand and a, “Hello, Cassandra,” in her mouth, a soft, pleased smile on her lips, and Cassandra feels nothing so much as a deep-seated dread as she searches for an appropriate response.

Her indecision pins her in place.

All the while, the Inquisitor’s warmth cools, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. She draws in a breath as though to speak and it’s only then that Cassandra finds her voice. “I cannot stay,” she says, far gruffer than she’d intended, far too brisk. The parchment rustles as she lifts it, a poor excuse, but the only one she has. It doesn’t justify her rudeness, but the Inquisitor nods, understanding.

“Leliana is a harsh taskmaster,” the Inquisitor offers, grimacing sympathetically, rapping her knuckles against the empty half of the bench she’d taken as her own. “If you need any help, I’d be happy to assist.”

Something thumps under the table, a slight jostling that Cassandra can still hear from across the hall. It’s loud enough that she loses the train of her thoughts entirely for a brief, crucial moment. “That’s quite all right,” she says finally, rushing the words, voice pitching higher as she feels herself caught in the lie. “I work better—”

“Yes, yes,” Varric says, dragging his hand through the air, imperious and impetuous both. “Save it, Seeker. I already know. Inquisitor, she just doesn’t want to spend a moment longer with me than she has to. Don’t force it by being nice to her.”

She opens her mouth to rebut this statement. Better not to compound the lie further—but Varric arches his eyebrow and his chin tilts up and something like a warning flashes in his eyes. The Inquisitor doesn’t see it, still turned toward Cassandra as she is. He jerks his head toward the door, almost imperceptible, and then shakes it. For good measure, Cassandra supposes, he mouths, _you owe me one_. And though that’s not what it feels like he wants to say—she’s not sure how she knows that, but she suspects it regardless—it’s true enough.

Perhaps she does.

Whether she’ll actually repay him for this reprieve is another thing entirely.

III.

“This is boring, innit?” Sera says, her arms wrapped around her biceps, her knees tucked inside her elbows. Though curled around herself, still she looks very much as though she’s going to freeze. Never mind that there’s a fire currently being kept alive by Dorian and the Inquisitor in turns, somehow remaining mostly smoke free despite the thick, constant drizzle of rain. Her hair, plastered to her scalp, has darkened from its usual blonde shade and if Cassandra didn’t know any better, she’d think her teeth are chattering. Water drips from her chin. And though Cassandra is not the sort to coddle another person, she wants to offer to Sera what spare, dry bit of fabric she might find tucked in her pockets. For what little good it would do.

“That is not how I would describe this particular moment, no,” Cassandra answers, because the Inquisitor and Dorian are currently plotting something on the other side of the fire pit, their heels dug into the rocky shore as they lean forward, flames flicking at their fingertips.

“Well, you’re _weird_ ,” is Sera’s astute observation. It comes with a particularly childish kick to the ground that sends a spray of sand toward the already struggling fire. Pouting, she tightens her grip on herself. “Trust me, all right? This is boring.”

“What about a barrier?” she hears from Dorian even though he’s whispering, face inches from the Inquisitor’s as they huddle together. The Inquisitor shrugs and waves her hand in an arc, a green flash curving to form a dome around the minuscule perimeter of their camp. For a brief moment, the fire wakens and a more comfortable temperature touches Cassandra’s face and hands. And then the barrier sputters out. A cool breeze immediately kicks up—Cassandra hadn’t even realized there’d been a breeze before—and sends a shiver down her spine. A shiver immediately followed by a crisp drip of water on her neck.

“Your lack of magical stamina would have gotten you thrown out of Tevinter.” Dorian scoffs and parrots the Inquisitor’s hand motion, dragging another barrier into existence. This time, the sudden warmth feels more humid. “Let me try.”

Cassandra wishes they would stop trying at all. If they are to be miserable, they ought to be consistently miserable.

“Having no interest in blood magic will do that to a person, I suppose,” the Inquisitor answers, tart and self-aware, but not without humor, too, a personal, private manner of communication just between her and him. No one else could have made that jab about Tevinter and not at the least have hurt his feelings. Then, his barrier fails, too, and she smiles. “Ha. What was it you were saying about Tevinter stamina? I seem to have forgotten in the midst of all this failure.”

“Charming,” Dorian says, scrubbing at his mouth, thoughtful. Then, clapping his hands together in mockery, “On the bright side, we only have to suffer through another day of this mess before we can go home. Remind me why we come to the Storm—”

Sera leans toward Cassandra. “Boooooooooring.” Her voice is very much above a whisper and it finally draws Dorian and the Inquisitor’s attention their way. As it was meant to, Cassandra is sure.

Dorian immediately and seamlessly rises to the bait. “Ah, yes. Because _you’ve_ been so very helpful so far,” he says, dusting his hands together. “Tell me, do those potions you throw on yourself when we’re fighting generate any heat the rest of us can actually use? Will they stop the rain from falling from the sky? Or are you complaining while the mages over here do all the work and prove once again how much more useful they are when it’s cold and wet?”

Blowing air from between her lips, Sera shakes her head and rocks back slightly, annoyance flashing in her yes. “Rain’s still falling, Dorian. I’m still freezing my knickers off. Won’t help doing magic at it.”

“Maybe if you smile hard enough, you’ll scare the clouds away,” Dorian says, an inexplicable statement as far as Cassandra’s concerned. But Sera laughs, bright and loud, and the slight tension formed a moment ago dissipates just as quickly.

Good-natured, or as good-natured as she gets, she says, “Eat it.” Then: “Oi, you’ve read every book in that moldy old library at Skyhold, yeah?”

“No.” His lips thin as he presses them together, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But please do continue; I’m positively intrigued to know where this question is going.”

Furrowing her brow, she leans forward, too, mirroring his action. “Sorry. Couldn’t tell through all the know-it-all-ness.” Her gaze flicks toward the Inquisitor briefly, her head dipping slightly. “You ever seen one with a pair of ladies in frilly dresses on the cover? Pretty ladies, yeah?”

“You’ll—” Dorian actually shuts up for a few seconds in consternation, mouth puckering at one side. “—I don’t… I’ve seen a few?” He looks briefly toward the Inquisitor. “Perhaps?”

“I think I know which one you’re talking about, Sera,” the Inquisitor says, a somewhat wicked look on her face. No, not wicked. Nothing so demarcated. Mischievous perhaps. And wistful. And something else that Cassandra is ill-equipped to parse because the Inquisitor can be a cipher when she wants to be, subtle in her actions and reactions. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Knew you were good people, Quizzy,” Sera says. Shifting sideways and stretching, she punches Cassandra lightly in the shoulder, the touch barely registering through the heavy weight of her armor. “You might like it, too, eh?”

“Is that the one with the—” Dorian makes a vague gesture with his hands and a shrug of his shoulder, one that apparently makes sense to both Sera and the Inquisitor because they nod and smile in recognition. And then Dorian nods, too, pleased with himself and all of Thedas it seems. This is a sentiment Cassandra cannot share. “Ah, yes. I’ve read it.”

“I—” Cassandra has _not_ read it. Hasn’t even heard of it. But if the Inquisitor has read it… “What’s it called?”

Sera proceeds to tell her. In glorious detail. Its name as well as its contents.

If Cassandra blushes, which she won’t admit one way or the other, at least the dwindling light helps obscure the fact. And if she wonders at the fact that the Inquisitor would have read such a thing, would have _liked_ such a thing, she needn’t acknowledge it. And maybe if she wonders whether she could like something like that, too, she can pretend she doesn’t.

Because that’s not possible.

She has no reason to search out this book, this book solely about women.

And so she doesn’t.

IV.

The sound of armor scraping against armor announces Cullen’s approach, a tactic he reserves for Skyhold alone, since she doesn’t think she’s ever heard him coming out in the field, the metal plate oiled and silenced with the careful layering of leather and cloth. His steps, too, are purposefully loud. A thoughtful gesture, that.

“Hello, Cullen,” Cassandra says, straightening her stance, hands gripping the fence of the practice yard. Just a handful of people are milling around; no one today seems interested in a fight. The dirt in the field hasn’t been disturbed yet. Not even a single footprint marring its dusty surface. But across the field, near the stone wall of Skyhold, just outside the entrance, stands the Inquisitor, an Orlesian woman beside her. Though Cassandra knows little about Orlesian fashion, the woman’s dress is as elegant as anything you’d find in Val Royeaux. The color is nice enough, a deep, dark grey, and less gaudy than some she’s seen. For that, Cassandra can find it in herself to approve.

 _She is beautiful_ , Cassandra thinks, dark hair pulled back, a few strands curling around her face. And from the way the Inquisitor leans toward her, perhaps she does, too.

A foolish thought, that. One she should not be thinking. One she wouldn’t have thought at any point in her past, she is sure. If not for… if not for the Inquisitor. And that book anyway.

“Cassandra,” he replies, coming to a stop at her side. His voice is warm and calming, as steady as his presence next to her. He does not prod where he isn’t wanted, perhaps the only person in Skyhold for whom that might be true, and so Cassandra does not seize up with fear of how this conversation might go. Standing beside Cullen is easy. “How goes it?”

“My arm aches,” she says, distracted. That’s not what she means at all, not really, and it has nothing to do with her preoccupation at the moment. Even though it’s true.

But though Cullen laughs, he says, “Your mission reports have read rather dull lately.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “It must be difficult to train when your only companions are mages and archers.” He pauses. “And Cole sometimes.”

“The Inquisitor has gotten better with a sword.”

“A _magic_ sword,” Cullen corrects, lip twitching a second time, the scar at the corner of his mouth pulling. “That’s not the same thing at all. It’s too light. There’s no proper impact.” He looks askance at Cassandra. “It would do your sword arm little good.”

“Maybe.” She hadn’t considered asking the Inquisitor to spar with her on those nights where there is little to do in camp but sit around and stew, but now the possibility plants itself in her mind, the roots growing strong and she hates that it had taken Cullen making an offhand remark to make her think of it. Even if he believes it a pointless exercise.

“Perhaps you should ask her to take Blackwall or the Iron Bull out with you.”

“No.” She shakes her head. The Inquisitor has chosen to organize missions the way she has for a reason. Cassandra cannot lie and say a well-timed barrier—or arrow or knife—hasn’t saved her life when another sword may not have. “It’s safer this way.”

The sound of girlish laughter drifts across the field toward them. No, not girlish. There is nothing _girlish_ about the laughter. Nor the way the Orlesian woman lifts her gloved hand to cover her mouth after having emitted that laugh. The Inquisitor is too hard to hear in return, but Cassandra suspects she is laughing, too. At the very least, she’s smiling quite a bit wider than Cassandra usually sees from her.

Cassandra’s hand tightens on the pommel of her sword.

Cullen’s shoulders roll under the heavy surcoat around his shoulders, the dark fur moving almost as a creature’s would. “Suit yourself,” he says, unaffected by the Orlesian woman’s actions. But though he’s unaffected, he’s not unaware. Or at least Cassandra believes that to be the case considering what he says next. “I fear that young woman is in for a disappointment.”

“Who?”

“The bookseller.” Pointing vaguely—and only for a moment—at the woman in dark grey. “I believe the Inquisitor has tasked her with filling the library’s shelves with something _other_ than Dorian’s requisitions from Tevinter. You haven’t noticed?”

“No.” Narrowing her eyes, she stares down at Cullen’s hands where they’ve wrapped around the wood fence beneath his palms. “Should I have?”

His answer is a long time coming, the words slow in their dubiousness when he finally delivers them. “I suppose not.”

“What books?”

“Hmm?”

“What has the Inquisitor ordered from her?”

“Ah.” Cullen’s hand drags across the back of his neck. “Mostly romantic stories, I believe.” He shrugs. “A few adventure tales.”

“Adventure tales.” She keeps her voice flat to keep from conveying too much of what she’s really feeling. Which is: why would the Inquisitor go through so much trouble? And why hadn’t she mentioned it to Cassandra? She knows Cassandra enjoys romances.

These are not questions, however, that she intends to ask. She isn’t a child. And the Inquisitor needn’t keep her informed of every development that occurs in Skyhold. There is one question she will ask though, because her curiosity has gotten the better of her judgment. “Why do you think this bookseller will be disappointed?”

“I—” Coughing, he raises his fist. And his cheeks redden, though he can’t hide that behind the tight curl of his hand. “Well, um. I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

“Then why mention it at all?”

“I didn’t think you’d ask.” He shakes his head and looks away, squinting a little. “Honestly, I wasn’t thinking at all when I spoke. It doesn’t concern me.” Squaring his shoulders, he nods crisply. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Cullen, please,” she replies. She doesn’t reach out to grasp him by the forearm, but the impulse is there. And maybe he senses it, because he turns toward her, a hint of curiosity in his gaze. And for that reason, she presses him. “I am not a gossip.”

“But you believe I am?” Sighing, he scrubs his hand over his face. Groans and sighs again as though he hadn’t already gotten across the idea that he is put upon by Cassandra’s request. But she knows how it is. In a leadership position, you often hear everything and nothing and must pretend at all times that it is so even if you haven’t heard anything at all. “Very well, but you did not learn of this from me.

“The bookseller has taken a liking to the Inquisitor.” He peers around to ensure that what few people are anywhere nearby are paying them no mind before going on. “A liking that the Inquisitor doesn’t seem to return.” He stops then, peering at Cassandra in a way that she finds a little discomfiting. “They say there’s another who has her affections already.”

Cassandra’s heart thuds hard against her breastbone, loud enough in her own ears that she’s almost certain Cullen can hear it, too. “Who?”

“I don’t know. _That_ is most definitely not my business,” he replies, spine straightening. “And I ensured that it was no one else’s business either while I was at it. The Inquisitor’s private life is her own.”

“But she… cares for someone?” Were she to imagine anything of the sort, she’d think of the Inquisitor finding Cullen attractive—many do and have—or… Varric perhaps? She spends much of her time with him. Not Dorian, surely, though it would make sense given different circumstances. They are so often with one another. There is always the Iron Bull or Blackwall or Solas or… she sighs. There can be no guessing. The Inquisition has grown to such a size that it could be anyone.

For some reason, the thought of the Inquisitor alone despite having feelings for someone causes a knife-sharp twist in her heart. Then it twists a little more and grows ugly, yearning in a way Cassandra doesn’t understand. She is not lonely, not looking for a paramour. And yet…

“I believe so,” Cullen says, slow again. Deliberate.

“Any man would be lucky to be with her.”

“Yes,” Cullen says, clearing his throat, scrubbing at his armor-clad elbow. The metal plating creaks as he shifts from side to side slightly. His eyes trace Skyhold’s ramparts. “I’m sure they would.”

“I—” And something about what she’s just said resonates. Deeply. Sends a pang of want through her so potent that she actually… “I must go,” she finishes, turning immediately on her heel, only avoiding striking Cullen with the sword sheathed at her hip by twisting at the last second. “Thank you, Cullen.”

She thinks he might have said something in response, but as her attention is thoroughly rooted elsewhere, she doesn’t pay it much mind. Besides, it’s Cullen.

He won’t hold her abruptness against her.

And later he won’t ask too many questions about it. Which is for the best. She has far more of her own than she knows how to deal with already. And at least one thing she must do. Only she must wait until the right time to do it.

V.

The library is mostly empty when Cassandra makes her way to it—partially by design thanks to a healthy dose of patience and fear. She knows, after all, that the Inquisitor shouldn’t be back for another couple of hours, Dorian with her as they scour the area surrounding Skyhold for useful herbs. Cassandra has always suspected that’s just their excuse for getting out from under everyone’s watchful eyes so they can train, but as they always return with elfroot at the very least, she cannot verify her hunch. Regardless, she is grateful that they’ve gone. Even if it has taken them a number of days to do so.

The fewer people she must speak with right now, the better, and there are few people who’d be more disruptive to her than those two.

Even knowing she’s safe from prying eyes, she grows nervous, the sensation twisting and buzzing in her gut all the while. When she glances around, she notes there are fewer people than usual around—she has no idea why, perhaps it’s the hour, perhaps the Maker has taken pity on her, she’s not sure. Skimming each shelf as quickly as possible, she hopes either Sera has already finished with _the book_ or that the Inquisitor hasn’t yet brought it to her.

Or maybe the Inquisitor hasn’t even tracked it down yet. Though why else, given the timing, would the bookseller have come to Skyhold?

 _You’re driving yourself to distraction over nothing_ , she thinks, the words harsh though they do nothing more than rattle around her brain. _It’s a book_.

But she knows it’s not. Not really. It’s definitely more than that. It’s…

She crouches down, the leather of her boots creaking in the near silence of the place. She grows all the more self-conscious for that, refrains from moving even the scant inches to drag her fingertips over the spines of the novels before her. Despite everything, it pleases her to see that this section has grown. At first, Varric’s tales had been the only thing to occupy this space. But slowly—and then not so slowly—it’s grown.

The Inquisitor’s doing. And Cassandra hadn’t even noticed it happening.

How much else hasn’t she noticed?

 _Too much_.

The gold-embossed title of the book stands out, glittering almost against the flickering of a nearby candle. Though her palms prickle with sweat, she pretends she cannot feel it. And then her fingernails catch on the edge and yank the book from its place on the shelf, falling easily into her hands. _Oh,_ she thinks.

She recognizes the corner of the book now, that small flash of orange she’d seen earlier. Now looking at the whole…

The women _are_ pretty, just like Sera had said. And their dresses are frilly, frothy in a way Cassandra recognizes too well also. She ought to hate it. She _wants_ to. But something about the way these women look at each other, the sweetness of their gaze, the soft smiles… Cassandra has other things to concern herself with than her distaste of the fashions they wear in this instance.

Like how the Inquisitor has smiled at her in much the same way—a time or two.

 _Or more_ , Cassandra thinks, her mind grasping for normalcy and finding only this realization. That… but no. No, it’s impossible. She had come here for evidence of her own feelings, not the Inquisitor’s. Just looking at this book makes her feel like she’s prying into something that isn’t hers to pry into.

Her fingers tighten against the leather binding around the spine of the book, her hand fighting against paired, opposite impulses: to both open the book and put it back. She does neither, pushing herself from her crouched position instead, the book held tight against her chest as her legs carry her—

Right into the Inquisitor.

“Whoa,” the Inquisitor says, her palm warm against Cassandra’s shoulder before she raises it in greeting, “steady.”

But Cassandra shouldn’t be feeling any warmth at all. She still has her armor on. There’s no way she can feel the Inquisitor’s touch through that. Sucking in a breath, Cassandra lowers her head and does her best to lower the book to her side—if not hide it entirely. “Inquisitor,” she replies, sounding high to her own ears. “I wasn’t expecting you to return this soon.”

“Neither was I.” The Inquisitor smiles—not _the smile_ , this one is more rueful—and points at her own cheek. How Cassandra had missed it is entirely unknown to her, because the cheek in question is sporting an angry red welt that nearly crosses the bridge of her nose, a little glossy still with salve. “Dorian’s enthusiasm for sword fighting got the better of me.”

“It’s not my fault,” Dorian calls from a few nooks away, probably his own, “that your face got in the way of my blade.”

The Inquisitor rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She mouths, “Semantics,” and winks and generally seems none the worse for wear. Louder, “I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea offering to show you how to summon one.”

Anger floods Cassandra’s body at how cavalierly both the Inquisitor and Dorian have treated the injury. They should not be going off on their own, playing at swords. Cassandra should have put her foot down sooner, offered to go with them so they could learn proper technique. But rationality gets the better of her again. Who is she to put her foot down with the Inquisitor? Besides, there are more important things to speak about. “Are you okay? Have you had a healer look at it?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor says, “and yes. It’s fine, really. Just stings a little.” Leaning in, close enough that Cassandra can smell the astringent, herbal quality of the salve, the Inquisitor adds, “Between you and me, Dorian’s reflexes are pretty good.”

“If Dorian’s reflexes were good, he wouldn’t have hit you in the face with his sword.” Cassandra wonders for a moment at the quality of their blades. She would have expected a cut rather than a… burn? Of sorts? Perhaps not quite a burn.

Why is she thinking of burns at a time like this? When the Inquisitor is this close to her and her heart is—

_But that is a good thing, yes?_

She flushes. And looks away again. And moves to hide the book behind her back. Which only serves to—

“Ah,” the Inquisitor says, perking up, “are you planning on reading that?”

“No!” Cassandra’s features scrunch up at the lie. “I mean—yes. Sera made me curious is all.” And then her face scrunches up again. She might have pretending this is another book she’s holding.

The Inquisitor nods, acting very much as though this explains everything when it does nothing of the sort and even Cassandra can’t pretend otherwise. “I hope you enjoy it, Cassandra.”

“I will.” 

Something delicate, almost hopeful, crosses the Inquisitor’s features, a longing that Cassandra might not have recognized before—might still not be getting quite right because it’s such an impossible notion. The thought of the Inquisitor _wanting_ Cassandra to like it… “Good,” the Inquisitor says. “I’ll leave you to it.”

And she turns to go. Like nothing has happened, nothing has changed, like…

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra says, a lump lodging in the back of her throat. “Wait.”

The Inquisitor stops immediately and turns back toward her, a wide, brittle grin pasted to her mouth. “Yes?”

“This is…” Cassandra’s whole body heats up, the air around her suddenly too warm. This isn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t be anyway. But Cassandra’s never considered anything of the sort and… “This is about two women, isn’t it?” She waves the book about in illustration. “That care for one another?”

She is, frankly, too old for this—this… realization.

And yet, she’s also too old to deny it any longer. _Be truthful in all things, Cassandra. When you can._

“Yes,” the Inquisitor says, her gaze steady on Cassandra’s face. She’s always been the braver of the two of them, more willing to put everything on the line. Just like that, Cassandra can’t imagine how she’s been so blind for so long. Then again, it has always taken a book to teach her about her own heart. Why would this situation be any different?

The least Cassandra can do is hold the Inquisitor’s gaze in return. “And you… care for me? The way they do?”

The Inquisitor nods, but says nothing further.

Cassandra thinks back, remembers in a flash every last compliment the Inquisitor has paid her since the very beginning. And all the times she’s rebuffed those efforts out of ignorance. “You have been flirting with me?”

The Inquisitor crosses her arms. “Unsuccessfully, it would seem.” There is none of the usual humor in her response. It makes Cassandra ache to feel that lack. “But yes.”

Finding her footing, Cassandra nods. “You like me?” She finds, not quite as inexplicably as she might have thought even moments ago, that she likes the idea.

The Inquisitor is an honorable woman, a gallant and kind one, too. The sort of woman Cassandra admires easily. She is also blunt to a fault when she wants to be. “I’d _like_ to take you someplace private and read you poetry and be there with you at the end of the day. What I feel for you is a little more involved than the word ‘like’ accurately conveys.”

How she can just say these things, Cassandra cannot guess, but say them she does and set Cassandra’s heart brawling about in her chest they do. Nowhere in it does Cassandra recognize the declaration of love she had always thought she’d wanted, but she feels it all the same.

“I’m sorry that I’ve made you uncomfortable, Cassandra,” the Inquisitor continues, a frown pulling at her mouth, regret in her gaze as it finally falls. “That is the last thing I would have wanted.” Cassandra is exposed to the elegant line of her profile when she turns her head. “I wasn’t even aware you knew. I don’t know how you guessed.”

“No, you—” She sighs, her palms prickling, the book a weight growing more heavy by the moment. The thing is… the thing of it is… she _is_ uncomfortable. Not because of the Inquisitor, but because she’s never—considered this possibility before. “You could never make me uncomfortable,” she insists, fierce.

The Inquisitor smiles, a little sad from Cassandra’s point of view. “I’m glad.” She rocks slightly on her heels, the wood creaking beneath her feet, and then takes one, two steps back. When all Cassandra wants her to do is take a step forward, two, however many it takes to turn her smile into a genuine expression of happiness.

Cassandra is far, far out of her depths here. She doesn’t _know_ how to make people happy. She barely knows how to keep from angering them most of the time.

“And I didn’t know,” Cassandra says, quiet. “Not until…” Not until so recently as to be embarrassing. No one else would have the same problem she’s had, she feels sure. Looking down at the book, she shrugs. “Not until right now if I’m being honest.”

“And you’re always honest.”

Cassandra nods. She’s always as honest as she can be. “So you can trust me when I say…” Her throat tightens. _The Inquisitor has put herself out there, so can you, Cassandra._ “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You’re not?” The Inquisitor’s words sound dubious, but there is a degree of hopefulness in her eyes that makes Cassandra feel bold. Bolder, anyway.

So Cassandra is the one who takes a step forward. And another. Until she’s close enough that the Inquisitor has to look up to her in order to catch her gaze. She seems happier already. It is a wonder to Cassandra. “No.”

The Inquisitor reaches for her hand, wraps her roughened fingers around her wrist. Her thumb brushes over the back of Cassandra’s knuckles, tracing the dry, cracked skin there with something approaching reverence. A reverence that threatens to embarrass Cassandra. A reverence that Cassandra decides she won’t allow herself to feel anything other than awe over. That anyone should behave toward Cassandra in this way…

There is nothing embarrassing about the Inquisitor’s attentions.

Cassandra’s eyes drop to the Inquisitor’s lips.

If the Inquisitor wishes to treat Cassandra as though she is something precious… Cassandra will not stop her.

“In that case,” the Inquisitor says, “would you mind it terribly if I kissed you?”

Cassandra’s pulse skitters, blood pounding furiously throughout her body. Her stomach twists into a hard knot in her abdomen. “No,” Cassandra says, voice steadier than she feels. “Please.”

And when the Inquisitor presses her mouth against Cassandra’s, something cracks inside of Cassandra’s chest, relief flooding her as she finally lets herself have this. The Inquisitor’s lips are soft, eager without being too insistent. She tastes of the same mint Dorian always carries with him, the flavor almost sweet against Cassandra’s tongue. Cassandra has read stories about people getting addicted to the taste of their partner’s kisses. She’d never understood that before, had thought it a silly, if lovely, thought, but now maybe… maybe she understands.

Her hands fall to the Inquisitor’s waist, clasping lightly at the hem of her skin-warmed tunic. The fabric, softer than Cassandra might have expected, bunches beneath her fingers and she worries briefly that she might be wrinkling it. But then the Inquisitor’s own fingers hook in Cassandra’s armor, pulling her closer, and Cassandra forgets all about it.

After a too-short time, Cassandra’s chest aches with the need to breathe, but it’s only reluctantly that she pulls away. Forehead resting against the Inquisitor’s, she draws in air, her chest rising and falling in a ragged, uneven rhythm.

“You’re very good at that,” Cassandra offers, awkward, unsure what she should say, how she should act. She’s not even sure where she should place her hands now, though she rather enjoys the way the Inquisitor is allowing her palms to linger on her hips.

“I’m very good at reciting poetry.” Tilting her head up, she presses a small, closed-mouthed kiss to the corner of Cassandra’s mouth. “This? I’m just an enthusiastic connoisseur.”

Cassandra huffs, her laugh amused, if gruff. There has been so little to laugh about in the last few years. It’s… nice that she can do so now. “Is that so?”

“Mmm.” Her features grow more serious as she takes a step back. Her eyes flick back and forth across Cassandra’s face. It is not, Cassandra is sad to say, a look of appreciation. Worry might better suit its character. “Cassandra, if this is—”

Eyelids fluttering shut, Cassandra sighs. “Inquisitor, for both of our sakes, please don’t finish that thought.” She lifts her hands, palms out in supplication. “It is unnecessary.”

“But—”

“I would not be here if I did not want to be. Don’t mistake my—my ignorance and artlessness for hesitation.” _I’ve already done far too much of that, I think_. “I would much rather hear you recite poetry to me.”

“Okay. I can do that.” A flush spreads across the Inquisitor’s cheeks and the bridge of her nose, but she nods, eyes brightening. Almost before Cassandra knows it, a blinding smile flashes across her mouth and her hand has shot out, removing the book from Cassandra’s hands. “Why don’t we start with this?” she asks.

Rolling her eyes, Cassandra gestures vaguely in the direction of the stairs. “If you insist,” she says, spine straight, forcing a giddy sense of pleasure as deep inside of her as she can get it given they’ll momentarily pass Dorian’s favorite chair. She’d like to preserve what small degree of her dignity she might reasonably retain. “Who am I to suggest otherwise?”

The Inquisitor takes her hand and pulls her out of the nook.

They’re halfway to the Inquisitor’s private chambers before she asks, “Does this mean you’ll call me Evelyn now?”

Cassandra turns her head and bites back a smile and hopes there’s no one paying enough attention to see either of those things. “Another time perhaps.”


End file.
